*POV: Lyra*
They say Black Hollow Institute is for "recovery." But the moment the iron gates shut behind me, it feels like a prison.
The car that brought me here is already gone. Just gravel, trees, and that building—its tall black windows like eyes watching. The air smells like rain and antiseptic.
I clench my sketchbook. My fingers are still stained with charcoal from this morning's drawing. I don't remember making it.
A tree. Twisted. Bleeding.
I swallow.
"Lyra Vale," says the nurse at the door, her smile too bright. "You'll feel better in no time. Most do."
Most.
Inside, the walls are too white. Too quiet. They echo every footstep, every breath. I hear the buzz of fluorescent lights, the soft hum of something deeper. Like a whisper through wires.
They lead me to my room. Two beds. One already made.
"You've got a roommate," the nurse chirps. "Millie. She's sweet."
Sweet isn't what I need. I need real. Answers. Sleep.
Millie isn't in the room. Just her half of the wall—plastered with pastel art, smiley faces, and "Positive Thought of the Day!" quotes. I drop my bag and sit. The bed creaks.
My hands itch.
I flip open the sketchbook.
More drawings I don't remember. A mirror. Eyes behind it. Scribbled words in ink:
*He lives inside.*
I shut the book.
A cold voice slithers behind my ear.
*"You're late, Lyra."*
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